


16-Occult Matters

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 4, The Long Shadow [16]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-02
Updated: 2007-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan discovers a wonderful smell; Qui-Gon "pollinates."</p>
            </blockquote>





	16-Occult Matters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merlynemrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlynemrys/gifts).



> –For Merlyn Emrys, who has her own (not so) occult virtues and a portrait rotting in the attic (with thanks to Moonshine for clarifying what the heck I was trying to write)

oc∙cult (for adj. ə kult̷; also ä̷kult̷; for v. ə kult̷)

  
_adj._ 〚L _occultus_ , concealed, pp. of _occulere_ , to cover over < _ob_ \- (see OB-) +., to hide〛

1.   hidden; concealed

2.   secret; esoteric

Qui-Gon tapped the end of his nose with his stylus and looked around the common room of his quarters thoughtfully. “There, directly,” he murmured, and made a notation on his datapad. “Then where?” he went on. After a moment’s consideration, he walked from the front door into the kitchen and stood looking around for a time again, then went to the cupboard and opened it, surveying the contents. Another notation followed, and then another. Giving the kitchen a last examination, he returned to the common room, hesitated a moment, then turned to the bedroom.

There, he stood in the doorway again, surveying the room, then walked to the six-drawer bureau. Kneeling in front of it, he pulled open the lower three drawers one by one, touching nothing but surveying their contents carefully. Another note on the datapad duly followed, this one rather longer. He opened the closet then, peered inside contemplatively, explored the pockets of a rather disreputable green robe he had formerly owned that now belonged to Obi-Wan, frowned, and made another note. He turned toward the bed for a moment, then walked to it and sank down on the side of it, facing the interior wall. His gaze rose briefly to the ceiling above, followed by a glance at the pile of pillows and bolsters at the head of the bed. More scribbling on the pad’s surface followed, accompanied by a faint and rather wicked smile.

Jicky watched Master Jinn surreptitiously from her spot on the common room’s sofa, where she was supposedly studying, and wondered what the heck he was doing. She could tell he was up to something wicked by his expression, and there was a good chance it involved her own master. Jicky had been disappointed that she hadn’t been able to accompany him on this mission, but she was in the middle of an important class and Master Obi-Wan had decided she should stay put. They’d been out on several already, since Master Obi-Wan had returned to field rotation, so she didn’t feel too disappointed. Now her master had commed to say he was on his way in and would be arriving in a few hours, rather than the several days they’d expected. At the news, Master Jinn had gotten himself busy with whatever he was up to now. She was hardly surprised when he suggested she might like to study with one of her friends for the afternoon. With that request, she had a pretty good idea of  what Master Jinn was up to.

* * *

Somewhere on Sacorria in the kind of dingy yet roomy complex favored by Hutts, Qui-Gon’s partner was growing increasingly apprehensive, though it didn’t show in his demeanor. In part, it was his danger-sense prodding him. In part, it was the presence of the Noghri. He wasn’t sure which to pay more  attention to.

Non-humanoids didn’t usually spook Obi-Wan; he was, after all, very well-traveled and a Jedi. But there was something about Noghri that made every instinct in his mammalian brainstem scream, _Run, you idiot!_ It didn’t help that they looked a little too much like demonic figures from just about any human culture’s myths. Or that this group were looking at him just a little too keenly, nostrils twitching, alert and tense in postures Obi-Wan was responding to automatically with his own alert tension that verged on unreasoning panic. His fear of Noghri was as deep as Qui-Gon’s acrophobia, and equally unreasoning.

He’d gotten this contact from a very dubious source during a late-night game of Sabacc over a bottle of some kind of equally dubious liquor that smelled more like etching acid than something one might want to drink. The liquor wasn’t all that had smelled bad. So had the information. But it was all he’d had and so he’d duly followed up on it.

“I don’t believe you, Dal Sinar-el, or whoever you really are. I don’t believe you’re a smuggler looking for a load of death sticks. And I don’t like liars,” the Hutt rumbled, not in Basic, of course, but in guttural Nar Shaddaa-inflected Huttese. Uncharacteristically, it involved a great deal of spraying spittle. His luck to run into the one Hutt in the galaxy with a speech impediment.

The Hutt’s gestures were easily interpretable, however, even to Obi-Wan.

_I knew this was going to end badly_ , Obi-Wan just barely had time to think before the Hutt’s Noghri guards responded to their employer’s non-verbal command and started to close in around him. Reflex, training, and the Force took over then and before they could hem him in entirely, he shot between them with the impossible enhanced speed of a Jedi and leaped and rolled through the blast door just as it was closing. A split second later, he was off through the halls of the complex, cover blown sky-high.

Alarms blared throughout the complex as Obi-Wan sped down the hallways of the Hutt’s maze-like complex. A few dozen meters down the hall from the audience chamber out of which he’d hurled himself, he slowed to a more normal, non-enhanced speed. A Force-run was good for straightaways, but on corners it was nearly impossible. Even at normal speed, he was still sprinting through the halls like an enraged Rancor was after him. Actually, he’d rather the Rancor than the Noghri. He’d gained a good deal of ground in that first burst but knew it would take more than distance and luck to lose them, with that sense of smell they had. He needed to get out of the complex and into the streets, where he could hope to dilute his scent trail among the crowds.

Though he’d been blindfolded on the way in, Obi-Wan had committed the route to memory and made only one wrong turn at the wrong place before finding his way to the entrance, which was already heavily guarded. Blaster fire scorched past him as he rounded the last corner. Instead of jumping back into cover and thus into the arms of his pursuers as might have been expected, his lightsaber appeared in his hands as if by magic and he charged into the middle of the group, the blade making sweeping arcs that sent the guards scurrying back from him, a few howling in pain and clutching the stumps of limbs.

The blast door proved to be more of a problem and nearly got him killed. Hutts being as paranoid as they were, this was a custom job and he couldn’t risk just shooting its controls out. It would have to be sliced. Truthfully, it needed two people to get it open; it would have been handy to have Jicky with him to provide cover while he sliced the door, but her classwork was at a critical juncture and he’d left her home. Obi-Wan wished he’d paid a little more attention to that guest lecture on lock mechanisms. Twice, he slammed guards into the wall with the Force and once had to stop entirely and chase them halfway down the hallway, coming back to find more at the door again, trying to undo what he’d already done. It became a deadly game of two steps forward, one step back: slice a little, pull the slicer from the input, chase the guards, plug in again, slice a little, fend off blaster fire, slice a little more—

Finally, after too many long, sweaty-palmed minutes, the doors slid open and Obi-Wan dove through them into the street. He knew the Noghri would follow, but they’d be a little more circumspect about revealing their intent by shooting at him out in public. If he could keep to the crowds as he made his way back to his ship, he might get away with his skin intact.

Unfortunately, the crowds were looking rather thin at the moment, probably because they were all inside for the midafternoon naps favored by Sacorria’s residents. Obi-Wan clipped his deactivated saber to his belt and slipped into a side street, heading quickly in the direction of the port. He pursued a circuitous route, winding through as many public places as he could find, treading a fine line between concealing himself and endangering the people he was trying hide among. He sensed the Noghri behind him every step of the way, following relentlessly. He could almost hear them sniffing. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck and a spot between his shoulders tingle.

He turned into a street lined with cafes and bars, outdoor tables on both sides of the street. Most of them were empty now, but there were a few business people and tourists lingering. Obi-Wan headed for the one with the largest number of people outside, and slipped through them into the cool, dim interior of the restaurant proper. There were fewer people inside, which crushed his hopes of hiding among them. Instead, he made his way through the kitchen in the back, suggesting to the startled wait-staff—who, thankfully, weren’t Force-impervious droids—that they hadn’t seen anyone come in during the last few minutes and that nobody’d  gone through the kitchen. He had no way of knowing what, if any, of his Force suggestion stuck, but no one protested as he went out the back door.

This opened into an alley lined with the large refuse bins favored by such establishments. For the moment, Obi-Wan ignored them, trotting down the alleyway to the point where it met the street. Then he turned around and carefully backtracked in his own footsteps and went the other way, to the far end of the alley and the street there. Once he reached that street, he turned back again, once more following his own footsteps, then followed his nose to the most aromatic of the bins. Just as he was getting set to climb in, he heard a door open farther up the alley. What would have been a careful placing of himself inside the bin turned into a headlong dive into the muck in his panic. He barely caught the lid with the Force in time to keep it from crashing noisily down and revealing his presence.

He crouched in the bin, reaching out with the Force to try to sense who was in the alley now. _Two Noghri,_ he thought. _A third. A fourth._ He heard angry voices, the hiss of the Noghri, a thud, a yelp, the slamming of a door.

Then he heard sniffing.

* * *

This would be the tricky part, and Qui-Gon was tempted to ask for help, but decided that if there were going to be mistakes made, this would be the time to make them. Better to learn here than in the field. Programming had never been one of his talents, but the Tech Master had claimed it wasn’t at all complicated. Qui-Gon supposed that’s why it had been given to him to test out in the first place; he wasn’t known for his facility with high tech.

But for once it wasn’t difficult. The instructions were clear, the commands simple. On top of that, the device was almost invisible. But even if it were noticed, there was a way to explain it. He’d take care of that along with the last phase of this project. He finished giving the gadget its orders and launched it. It left his hand on its own repulsor field and came to a stop about a meter above him. He looked at it for a moment then turned away to complete the rest of his part in the test. It followed him silently.

And this was the part he enjoyed the most. It was not just that it involved paper and calligraphy; it was imagining Obi-Wan’s reactions that made it such a pleasurable activity. Anticipation really was half the fun, no matter what the object.

He laid out the materials on the low table: paper, inks, inkstone, water, brushes, straightedge, graphite, knife, blotter. He had several kinds of paper at his disposal, but had chosen one that was heavy and textured that folded with some difficulty, even with the grain. He plotted the size of the notes out carefully, so nothing went to waste, and laid out the lines of calligraphy with the graphite and straightedge before he set to work. The ink he mixed with equal care until it was a heavy black that wouldn’t run or bleed. After testing it out on a scrap and finding it satisfactory, he set to work, slowly and meticulously inking in the words.

Once the notes were done, he blotted them and let them dry, then cut them out and set about folding and hiding them. He reviewed his notes once more, then walked through their quarters with the gadget following him at a discreet distance, silent and hardly noticeable at all. As he moved through the rooms, he tucked the notes in quite odd places, more than one of them taking some fiddling to make them fit, including standing in the middle of their bed. He tucked a little surprise behind the bolster there when he was done and got down and smoothed the covers again. One more task and he was through.

It was a good plan. The Tech Master would get the report she wanted, Qui-Gon would get the perfect thing to keep him company when Obi-Wan was gone, and Obi-Wan would get, well, a number of things. Qui-Gon smiled the same wicked little smile and rose to complete the last task. Obi-Wan was in for quite a surprise.

* * *

Obi-Wan was getting nauseated. He was sure he’d never smelled anything quite as vile as the contents of this refuse bin. He’d hoped that eventually he’d get used to it, as one tended to do, but that was not the case. Each breath brought a fresh assault on his olfactory nerves, a fresh struggle with his gag reflex. Breathing through his mouth didn’t help, either, because then he could _taste_ it. That was, without question, far worse than merely smelling it. And smelling it was among the worst experiences he’d ever endured.

Even listening for and trying to sense what the Noghri were doing wasn’t enough to distract him from the smell. They had split into two groups, following their noses to either end of the alley where his trail mysteriously ended. The alley was quiet for a few minutes while they cast about for his scent beyond it, then he heard a sound he’d dreaded: the slamming of dropped lids as they began to inspect each of the bins. They were trying to flush him out.

_Shit! What was I thinking?_

Before they could reach his hiding place, Obi-Wan jostled the bin across from his own with the Force and blanched as he heard blaster fire riddle it. Moments later, that was followed by the sound of a slamming door and the roar of an angry Wookiee proprietor. Even Noghri didn’t argue with an angry Wookiee. Within a couple more minutes, other voices—human, Selonian, and Drall—had joined him and Obi-Wan sensed the Noghri slinking away, outnumbered. Sacorria was a peaceful colony world and the Selonians who held it liked it that way. Business was one thing, even dirty business. But any sign that the Hutts and their minions were causing violence and they’d be out with a ruthless efficiency Corellians were known for.

Had he been able to take anything but shallow breaths, Obi-Wan would have sobbed in relief. Of course, this didn’t mean he could leave any time soon. No doubt the Noghri would be waiting for him at either end of the alley, or possibly staking out his ship, if they could find out which one he’d come in on. There he was probably in luck, since they’d be expecting a ship larger than the one-person scout he’d come arrived in.

Or not, since his cover was blown.

Miserably, Obi-Wan hunkered down into the morass of refuse and tried to figure out where he’d gone wrong. The whole mission had been a debacle, and he’d made one bad decision after another.  He’d been out in the field solo for almost three years now, not including his half-year sick leave, and shouldn’t be making stupid mistakes like this. He certainly shouldn’t be letting his fear get the best of him as it had. In retrospect, he was glad Jicky wasn’t with him. He’d made a right fool of himself and though it would probably be good for her to see her master was sometimes an idiot, he didn’t relish the experience.

He hadn’t wanted to take this mission, right from the beginning. It wasn’t his kind of work, chasing after a lead someone else had lost with a fake identity. Obi-Wan had never liked undercover work to begin with. That was Bruck’s specialty. Bruck could change his walk, his voice, his vocabulary, his diction, his whole attitude at a moment’s notice. For Obi-Wan, it was a chore that took some psyching up to, and even more work to maintain. Some part of him always felt vaguely silly pretending to be someone else and it showed. Obi-Wan was a strategist, a behind-the-scenes plotter, the one you called in to cover the team in the bust. He could mastermind the sting, but preferred not to play in it if it required an elaborate personal disguise.

That was because he was a terrible liar. In all the years he’d trained with Qui-Gon on the diplomatic circuit, he’d learned how to tell part of the truth, how to smile enigmatically, how to politely avoid answering a question, how to redirect the conversation, how to just keep his mouth shut, but he’d never learned to lie. Qui-Gon had given up trying to teach him long before he’d been knighted. “Play to your strengths, Padawan,” he’d been told. “Use your charm.”

Being charming didn’t count for much in this kind of undercover work. Hutts and Noghri didn’t much care how charming one was.

If it were any consolation, and it wasn’t, he’d been pretty sure this was a dead end to begin with. The trail had been ice-cold when he’d picked it up and he was an unknown and unheard of quantity in the world of smugglers and gun runners he’d tried to step into. No one was going to open up for him. But he’d certainly been led a merry dance and created waves of chaos along the way, he thought grimly, still taking very shallow breaths. The slop around his ankles was actually bubbling. And seeping into his waterproof boots on top of that. He wondered if it would eat right through the treated nerf-leather before he could get out of here.

He crouched there without moving for another five hours before night fell, Force-suggesting to one person who came to empty more slops into his bin that he empty them elsewhere. When it was dark out, and the alley shrouded in the sounds of evening revelry, he reached out again with the Force to see if he could sense the Noghri nearby, but there was no sign of them. Cautiously, limbs and joints stiff and creaking from the lack of movement, he climbed out of the bin and cleaned himself off as best he could, wishing fervently for a cloak to wrap himself in. He was covered in filth, head to toe, front to back, from his headfirst dive. His boots and pants were soaked in primordial ooze and everything else was splattered with it. Shuddering, he wondered what new life forms were colonizing him.

This time, he kept to the shadows away from the crowds as he made his way out of the alley and into the main streets, Force sense alert to the presence of any Noghri. Apparently, however, they’d given up the chase, unless they were waiting for him near his ship at the port. He decided to make his way into the hanger unobtrusively, and crept past security with the help of Force-generated distractions and stealth, despite his smell. He was surprised and somewhat distrustful of how easy it was, and even more surprised that no one seemed to be guarding his ship.

Still wary, he did a thorough visual inspection, finding no tracking devices or other suspicious objects where they might be hidden or attached, and made sure the little scout was still in one piece. Then he uncoupled the various lines and hoses, woke up his droid, and fired up the engines. Everything seemed in order and he debated getting the proper clearance for departure, but decided it was better to not alert the authorities that he was slipping out of Corellian space prodded by angry Hutts and hunting Noghri.

Ten minutes later, he was carefully avoiding the scheduled orbital traffic around Sacorria and waiting for his plotted course for home to come through from the navcomputer. Nothing left for it now but to compose his report, and try not to throw up in the cockpit. Not that there’d be much to throw up, since he’d tossed his last meal in the bin already, losing the fight with his stomach over the stench. He’d discovered it was amazingly difficult to vomit silently.

Home had never looked so good. Even the anticipation of home had never looked so good. Home meant hot water, shampoo, a bath scrubber, soap, clean clothing, toothpaste, mouthwash, exfoliants, a nail brush, deodorant. Disinfectant. Laundry. A razor and dipilatory, if necessary, which he hoped they wouldn’t be.

And, eventually, a lovely consoling fuck with his partner. Provided he ever got clean enough for anyone to want to touch him again.

Finally, the stars outside the plexsteel turned to lines as he jumped unobstructed and unpursued into hyperspace. The appearance of starlines outside his cockpit threw some kind of off-switch in Obi-Wan’s alert mechanisms. He sat back in his seat with a heartfelt sigh of relief, his muscles finally losing some of the extra tension they’d acquired in the last several hours. He was unsurprised to find his hands shaking though. Every time he thought of the Noghri snuffling around the bins in the alley, his skin began to crawl, and not just from the drying, encrusted filth. For long minutes, he merely sat in the hot seat, shaking and chanting “lucky lucky lucky” under his breath. On top of that, he had to urinate so badly, suddenly, that even the primitive sanitation facilities in his cockpit came as a welcome relief rather than a distasteful provision. It took most of the hours-long trip home to release the remainder of his fear into the Force and metabolize the adrenalin.

 

Of course, the ragging started the moment he popped the canopy in the Temple’s hangar.

The ground crew member who had climbed up to help him reeled back, gagging, and scurried away again down the ladder. “Little Gods, Master K,” she choked, eyes streaming, “with all due respect, you could have warned us. What’ve you been rolling in? ”

“Sorry, Carine,” he replied sheepishly. “You’re right, I should have warned you. Believe me, you don’t really want to know what it was,” he added, climbing down the ladder himself. As one, the ground crew backed off to a safe distance upwind.

“Hey, Kenobi!” one of them called. “That’s some kinda cologne you’re wearing. When did you start trying to attract carrion eaters?”

“Ah, that explains your presence, Flinn,” he shot back with a grimace. Followed by a chorus of hoots and laughter, he stalked out of the hangar. It only got worse.

Similar half-jocular comments from friends and acquaintances, and unmistakably offended looks mostly from non-Jedi, followed him as he made his way through the Temple. He found himself hurrying a little more with each one until he was practically sprinting through the halls. At the lifts, he waited until there was an empty one, then waved off anyone who tried to get in with him. “Trust me, you’ll be glad you waited, ser,” he told a Senator and his gaggle of aides. He broke into a jog once he reached his own floor and hallway, and was actually panting a little when he was brought up short by the sheet of flimsie affixed to the door of his quarters.

_Caution: Pollinators at work_

_Please close the door quickly_

Obi-Wan groaned aloud. Little Gods, that could mean anything from insects to slugs to flittery avians—or worse, with Qui. Well, probably not slugs if he were being asked to close the door quickly. Since Qui-Gon had taken up a teaching rotation, the older man had gradually filled their quarters with plants, flowering and otherwise, that grew lavishly under his care. As a rule, Obi-Wan enjoyed the greenery and the blooms, but this experiment in horticulture was not what he needed just now. With his luck, Qui’s pollinators would be attracted by the ripe smell of his clothing and he’d be dive-bombed or covered with insects within minutes of stepping in the doorway. Briefly, he considered heading to the showers near the salles but decided that would earn him even more ribbing than he’d already gotten, and he was in no mood for that.

Instead he hit the palm panel and burst through the door of his quarters as though running away from his own stench, then hit the close panel behind him as though hoping to keep it out. He started to lean against the wall for a moment to catch his breath, then thought better of it and bent forward with his hands over his knees. That only brought him nearer the stench. His pants were stiff with the Little-Gods-knew-what, so he stood straight and tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling, where something small and silvery hovered. One of Qui’s pollinators, no doubt. Fortunately, it seemed perfectly happy to maintain its distance. Perhaps the smell offended it, too. He could only hope.

When he was breathing normally again (but only through his mouth), he unclipped and carefully removed his weapons—blaster (hip holster), vibroblade (boot sheath), and lightsaber (harness beneath his arm)—and stowed them in the arms cabinet. He’d spent much of the trip home cleaning them, once his hands had stopped shaking, purely to keep his mind off the smell.

That done, he toed off his encrusted boots, peeled off and flung his stained and caked jacket into a corner in obvious disgust, and headed for the fresher, leaving a trail of filthy clothing behind him as he went: vest, shirt, undershirt, belt, trousers, small clothes, left sock, right sock. The latter came to rest half in and half out of the fresher, making the door click and stutter complainingly until Obi-Wan snatched the offending article inside and dropped it on the fresher floor, where it lay forlornly separated from its equally aromatic and now holey mate. Seconds later, he hurled it back out with a little extra Force push.

Shortly, the small room was filled with billows of steam emanating from the shower. Obi-Wan slipped into the scalding stream gingerly at first, then with a deep sigh of pleasure and relief. Sonics were fine, but there was nothing, _nothing_ like hot water to get one psychically as well as physically clean. Especially after sitting cooped up in a cockpit for hours and having to piss in a bottle. Especially after sitting cooped up in a cockpit for hours after having hidden in a particularly putrescent garbage container for many more hours. He let the hard spray beat down on his head, his neck, his shoulders, and upper back successively, feeling muscles loosen and relax for the first time in days. _Little Gods, I hate undercover work._

“A little tense? Me?” he muttered sourly. “Why would I be tense? Just because I’ve got a pack of Noghri chasing me halfway across the bloody city for failing to go quietly to the convenient disposal of one overly snoopy fake smuggler—namely, myself? Tense? Why should I be tense? Just because it seems my cover was blown before I even arrived? Why would that make me tense?” And why did Noghri have to have that hypertrophied sense of smell? He probably could have at least skipped the liaison with the garbage container then.

“Gah,” he sighed, and leaned his forehead against the slippery tile, letting the hot water run down his back. _How did this go so wrong so quickly? I was doomed before I even got out of my ship._ He stood up again and held his hands out in front of himself, gratified to find that he really had stopped shaking now. Little Gods, that had been close. He hadn’t been quite that frightened in years. Thank the Noghri for that.

And there was just something a little too jarring about pretending to be someone else and running for one’s life one moment, then hopping in a ship and being home and safe and oneself again the next, all in a few hours. The mental dislocation seemed inversely proportionate to the distance in parsecs, and the time spent going from danger zone to safety.

“Sith hells,” Obi-Wan swore without much conviction and picked up the soap. He was quite certain he could still smell that sour fug adrenalin left behind it. There was no question he could still smell the garbage bin.

But the water was doing its work. Twenty minutes, two hard scrubs, a nasal douche, and many meditative breaths later, Obi-Wan stepped out of the stall, humming calmly and smelling only of soap and skin. He toweled off his hair, wrapped another towel around his waist, and slid the door open to let the steam out. It was only then, in turning to the fogged mirror, that he saw the words.

                                                            _Welcome home, Kosai._

Obi-Wan laughed aloud and immediately felt better for it. Amazing what a laugh and a smile could do to one’s mood.

It was obviously Qui-Gon’s large and careful writing, inscribed in nothing more than natural skin oil from a fingertip on the clean glass of the mirror. Invisible otherwise, clear as day where the oils repelled the condensation from the shower.

This leaving of notes was becoming a little ritual with them, one they both enjoyed, now that Obi-Wan was so often away on his own missions and Qui-Gon just as often called away from teaching to mediate some dispute for the Senate. They passed, any more, like the proverbial ships in hyperspace, too seldom in port at the same time. He’d forgotten which one of them had started this not long after his knighting, but they both did it now. This was a new twist on the game, however. Well, Qui-Gon had always been an inventive lover, and this was just another example of his imagination at work.

Smiling and humming and feeling distinctly better, Obi-Wan finished his ablutions and wandered into the kitchen to start a pot of tea for himself, still wrapped in nothing but towels. There was no hurry in reporting to the Council. They hadn’t expected him back for some time yet, and he’d already transmitted his report on the failure of his mission. There would be some investigation of the breaking of his cover, probably, but it was now largely out of his hands. Water heating, he lifted the lid on the canister holding his tea—Qui-Gon’s cha was in another—and, peering in, was vaguely disappointed to find nothing but tea leaves inside. Then he pulled open  the drawer for a spoon.

_Imagine_

_my_

_breath_

_on_

_the_

_nape_

_of_

_your_

_neck_

the note read. Obi-Wan shivered, the back of his neck tingling and warm beneath the towel, the rest of him in coldflesh.

The long, narrow slip of paper—and it was paper, not flimsie, the heavy handmade kind that was one of his lover’s few indulgences—was folded between each word and affixed inside the drawer so that it would spread out when the drawer was opened. Which was rather suggestive all by itself, he realized, as Qui-Gon no doubt meant it to be. As a result, he wasn’t surprised that a bit of heat began to pool in his groin. Obi-Wan smiled and gently removed the piece of paper, then took a spoon from the drawer and closed it again.

He’d taken to saving the notes Qui-Gon left him, originally weighted down beneath one of the rocks he’d been given for his nameday, years ago, now moved to a drawer in their bedroom with Jicky’s arrival. While the notes were certainly no substitute for the real thing, they were fuel for his fantasies when they were apart. Someday, he knew, they would be all he had, these notes and his own memories. The encounter with the Sith on Naboo almost four years before had made that painfully clear to him, as had Qui-Gon’s subsequent activities based closer to home.

Lost in the recollection of other notes and rocks and Qui-Gon’s kisses, he took the teapot down—also not the one Qui-Gon used for his spicy cha—but it wasn’t until he’d put in both leaves and water that he noticed a barely visible bit of white peeping out of the spout.

And if that wasn’t suggestive, Obi-Wan didn’t know what was. It made him think quite vividly of the ring piercing the head of his lover’s cock, and the way it peeped out from his foreskin when he was flaccid. This made Obi-Wan smile too. Only Qui-Gon could make the placement of a note erotic.

He teased the bit of paper out of the steaming spout and unrolled it. Though it was a little damp on one end, much like Obi-Wan himself, there didn’t seem to be any writing on it. At least, so he thought at first. Then pale lines began to appear on it, growing darker as the rise in temperature from steam and fingers activated the ink.

                                                               _the heat of my body_

_pressed against yours_

That pulled a little whimper from Obi-Wan as he felt himself flush all along his back as though Qui-Gon really were leaning against him. If only. It would be wonderful to have a distraction to keep him from thinking about what went wrong with this mission and what an idiot he felt for panicking as he had.

“Daft buggers, both of us,” he muttered, shaking his head but still smiling.

Mug in hand, Obi-Wan wandered back into the common room and picked up his disgusting clothing, shoving even the boots down the oubliette. He’d hoped the latter might still be salvaged if he cleaned them soon, but whatever was digesting the matter in the bottom of the bin had begun digesting them too, and they were pocked with holes. Like the clothing, they were beyond hope. That would make the quartermaster very unhappy—but not as unhappy as it might have made the laundry. Even droids have their standards, not to mention padawans on punishment detail. Come to think of it, he hoped it would be droids cleaning out and disinfecting his ship’s cockpit.

He wondered, not quite idly, if he should take himself down to the healers and get a broad-spectrum anti-infective booster just in case. He’d gone into the container head-first and it had been liquid at the bottom. Who knew what microbes he’d been ingesting and inhaling inside that bin?

After washing his hands thoroughly again, he went into the bedroom to find some blessedly clean clothing. His knees cracked as he squatted to open the lowest drawer of the storage unit he and Qui-Gon shared. Crouching in that bin had been painful in more ways than one. He grunted in surprise then sank right onto his knees, sore or not, when the next note popped up at him from the top of his neat pile of smallclothes.

_my hand_

_sliding_

_down_

_your belly_

_beneath_

_your waistband_

Suddenly there was less than no point in keeping the bloody towel on or thinking about getting dressed because something else was popping up, too. On a hunch, he opened the drawer that stored his undertunics and found another note peeping out from the folds of the one on top:

_my fingers_

_pinching_

_your nipple_

He could almost feel the whisper of calloused palm against his chest, roughened skin catching in the hair there. His nipples peaked all by themselves, supplying the tingle that shot to his groin.

As Qui-Gon no doubt meant him to do, he closed his eyes and mimicked the actions described, sliding one hand beneath the towel at his waist and letting it fall from his hips. The other hand glided across his chest to his nipple and pinched, hard. He moaned, feeling Qui-Gon’s hands on himself and not his own.

Obi-Wan’s hands were starting to shake again, and it wasn’t from fear this time. But he was getting off his knees. Now.

Flinging off the remaining towel around his neck, he got up and walked to the bed and collapsed backwards on it, feet still flat on the floor, then started to laugh. On the ceiling, at the correct angle, as though Qui-Gon had known exactly what he was going to do, was another note.

_my body_

_holding you_

_down_

_Look  down_

Oh gods, this was really too much. He’d masturbated for Qui before, any number of times, letting him watch and winding both of them up until all it took was a look or a touch or a word to make them come. But this was a new twist, Qui leaving him directions like this. It was certainly fun, but to what end? And did he really care about Qui’s reasons, at this particular moment? No. Clearly, Qui-Gon was interested in giving his lover a good time, with or without his presence.

_Look down_ , Qui had written. Obediently, Obi-Wan raised his head. “Oh gods,” he whispered. Looking past his hardening erection at the inside wall, where it wouldn’t be immediately noticed by someone just entering the room—say, to get some clean clothing—he found one of Bruck’s studies of Qui-Gon from the night Isa had filmed the three of them dancing together. Only Bruck had stripped away the clothing Qui-Gon had worn that night, leaving the long, lean, and very naked muscular body sinuously curved in motion, long hair flying out behind him, features set in serene intensity. Beneath it, more directions:

_Be my hands_

Obi-Wan’s cock throbbed in appreciation. “Fine art indeed,” he murmured, groping for a bolster to shove behind his head. This was excellent fantasy fuel.

His hand found the bolster and pulled it toward him, felt something else move with it and looked over. Behind the bolster Qui-Gon had stashed a small bottle of lube and a curved plug. Always helpful and always thinking of his lover.

Obi-Wan whimpered and found he had to concentrate for a moment to keep from coming. The plug was another new addition to their toy chest. They had others of various shapes and sizes, but this one had a little extra curve on the base that looked like it would press into his perineum and a curly looped handle on the other side. He could just imagine what the sensuous curve on this one would feel like, both going in and once it was inside. Just the thought made him shudder. His knees went suddenly weak with anticipation.

“Oh gods, Qui, where do you find these things?” he murmured. Flipping open the cap on the lube, he spread a little on his fingers, then rolled on his side and reached back to coat his opening. He lubed just the tip of the plug then and pushed it in slowly, enjoying the slight rasp and the new shape and the weight of it. True to his assumptions, it nudged his prostate before settling there with a gentle pressure. He rocked the handle and shuddered as it rubbed the sweet spot again and pressed against the root of his cock from the outside.

Experimenting, he rolled onto his back again and felt it shift inside him, pressing against his prostate in a delicious way. He propped himself up on his elbows, changing the angle again and then sat up, which resulted in a sensation so intense that he cried out and arched into it, hand going automatically to his cock. Little Gods, this was a wonderful toy! Not quite as good as having Qui in him, but certainly an acceptable substitute.

Still sitting on the edge of their bed, legs spread wide, he rocked a little, moving the plug over the sweet spot. It was almost like having Qui-Gon’s fingers inside him, preparing and exploring him, and it was making him shaky with need.

He leaned back again, scooting himself and the bolster farther up the bed so he could bring his heels up on the mattress and rock against the plug. He stroked himself slowly at first, still shaky, gazing between his knees at the drawing Bruck had done and remembering the three of them grinding together on the dance floor, Bruck in front of him, Qui-Gon behind.

Bruck’s hand on him in front, Qui-Gon in him from behind.

Oh gods.

Excellent fantasy fuel.

As though Qui-Gon were gazing out at him, Obi-Wan stroked himself with more patience than he would normally if alone. Still rocking, the new plug sending little shivers through him each time it pressed against his prostate, he reached down and cupped his balls, squeezing to the same rhythm at which he stroked his cock. In very short order, he was moaning, his breath coming in short ragged gasps, his head thrown back against the bolster, the picture of Qui-Gon only in his mind.

It was almost too much stimulation, the long plug like a thick, questing finger inside him, the pressure on his balls, the friction on his cock. After days of tension and a healthy dose of fear, he needed the release, needed to speed things up. Enough of the long, slow, comfortable jerk-off. He needed to come. Right now.

He tugged himself brutally, fisted himself dry, rocked back hard onto the thing impaling him and within seconds felt his balls draw up tight against his shaft. Moments later, he was coming hard, crying out, writhing on the bed, spattering cum across his chest. It seemed to go on and on and when it was over, he collapsed with a pathetic little moan. It was good, but it would have been so much better if he could have shared it with Qui-Gon.

 

He was still panting and boneless when he heard the door to their quarters open and Qui-Gon’s footsteps approaching. He didn’t bother to sit up. He wasn’t sure he could, anyway.

“Well,” was all Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan raised his head for a moment to find his lover leaning against the doorway with a smug smile on his face. He groaned and let himself go limp again. “It’s a deep subject,” he panted. “I notice you knew just where to find me. Too bad you didn’t happen by a little earlier.”

The bed dipped suddenly as Qui-Gon lay down beside him and pulled Obi-Wan against him for a kiss, unperturbed by the damp stickiness coating his chest. “I didn’t want to spoil the moment.”

“Ah,” was all Obi-Wan managed. “So I wasn’t shielding very well.”

“Hardly at all, thankfully, at least on my end. Hopefully you were for Jicky.”

“Believe me, I’d have heard about it,” Obi-Wan said wryly, making Qui-Gon smile crookedly.

He leaned back and began to rub his face and beard against Obi-Wan’s chest. “I love the smell of your cum on you. I take it you liked the toy.”

“Oh yes,” Obi-Wan breathed. “Yes indeed. It’s a splendid toy.”

Qui-Gon reached down between his lover’s legs and threaded one finger into the handle, rocking it and making Obi-Wan groan.  “You, Master Kenobi, are very easily led,” he observed, nipping playfully at an earlobe.

Beneath him, Obi-Wan suddenly went as taut as a wire. Qui-Gon reared back quizzically. “Was it something I said, or something I did?”

“Yes, it was,” Obi-Wan replied in a faint voice, gaze focused far away. “You may have just answered my question. About what happened on this mission.”

Suppressing a sigh, Qui-Gon started to roll off him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Obi-Wan pulled him back. “No. Right now, I want you to fuck me into this mattress. The toy is lovely, but it’s not you. Take it out.”

“Are you so sure?” Qui-Gon said slyly, manipulating the plug so it brushed over his prostate hard.

Obi-Wan’s eyes glazed over and he arched up against the long body holding him down. “No,” he moaned, closing his eyes. “But I do want you to fuck me. Please.” It was the first time in a long while that Obi-Wan wanted to bottom.

And the want and need were clear in his voice. Deftly, Qui-Gon rolled him over, then leaned back to loosen his own trousers, freeing the erection he’d been hiding—or at least ignoring—since Obi-Wan had first stepped out of his clothing. The younger man was already getting onto his knees, but Qui-Gon pushed him back down flat with a hand on his lower back. With the other, he slowly drew the plug out, watching avidly as Obi-Wan shuddered.

“I want you like this, underneath me,” he growled, rolling back onto his lover. He nudged one leg up with his own knee, and pushed inside all in one movement. Obi-Wan cried out beneath him and curled his fists in the covers.

“Oh, yes,” he hissed. “Yes, yes, like that.”

“Like what? Tell me,” Qui-Gon whispered harshly, beginning to move.

“That huge cock of yours hot and hard in my ass and—uh!—oh, still half in your clothes, and—” He was panting now, as Qui-Gon drove into him. “—and not—too—slick—right there! There! Yes! Harder!”

And then there were no more words for either of them, only the sounds of two bodies coming together in passion and the movement of the bed below them, Qui-Gon slamming into him with a little grunt, and pushing something low and guttural out of his lover as he did. Qui-Gon’s weight on him was crushing, or would have been against a harder surface, and he was mashed against the mattress, his sensitive, stiffening cock trapped between his body and the bed. With only the little bit of lube he’d used with the plug, Qui-Gon was fucking him nearly dry, filling him like nothing else did: moving, pulsing inside him, stretching him, shoving into him in a long, delicious rasp. He’d feel this in the morning—he’d feel it the moment the endorphins wore off—but right now it was “so good so good so good.”

Then, at the end of a hard thrust which left him buried deep inside and Obi-Wan quivering, Qui-Gon rolled them both over on their sides, lifting Obi-Wan’s topmost leg over his own and reaching around to grasp the younger man’s cock while spreading him again. Qui-Gon drew back and thrust inside the tight sheath of his lover, as Obi-Wan reached down to guide his hand in a quick and brutal rhythm.

The sounds they were making were almost indistinguishable now. Qui-Gon had buried his face between Obi-Wan’s neck and shoulder, growling as Obi-Wan pushed back against him and thrust into his hand. His breath was hot on Obi-Wan’s skin, as hot as the body aligned along his own, like the tactile memory of it triggered by the note, but this was so much better. It was real. Inside him, he felt Qui-Gon quivering then heard a muffled snarl and felt Qui-Gon’s cock swell and pulse and the wash of semen coating him inside. Teeth sank into his shoulder, biting hard enough to mark him, and that pushed him over the edge, pulsing around his lover’s cock and coating his lover’s hand with spunk and crying out his lover’s name. Qui-Gon’s hips rocked helplessly for a moment, pumping into him until he was spent. “Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan,” he murmured, and sighed, and leaned against him, letting the younger man’s leg down gently. He kissed the not-quite-broken skin of the bite and Obi-Wan shivered with the warmth of it.

He lay half under Qui-Gon again, sweat cooling on his skin or absorbed by Qui-Gon’s tunics, just listening with a deep sense of contentment to both of them breathe. For the first time in days, he felt centered and relaxed—and safe.

Behind him, half on top of him, Qui-Gon sighed. “That was lovely. And it’s going to make a splendid little holo to keep me company when you’re gone.”

“What are you talking about?” Obi-Wan murmured sleepily.

“You were being watched,” Qui-Gon whispered into his ear, and then stuck his tongue in the center of it, making Obi-Wan jump.

“Qui! Stop it,” he laughed. “What do you mean I was being watched?”

“I’ve been filming you, since you stepped inside our quarters. With one of the Tech Master’s new toys. She’s been handing them out to various people to test them out.”

“You what?”

“I said, I’ve been filming you. With a very tiny holocam with very powerful resolution. You didn’t notice anything following you around?”

“I just assumed it was one of your pollinators. I was smelling a bit ripe when I came in.”

“There are no pollinators, love,” Qui-Gon said gently. “But you smell a bit ripe now. It’s a wonderful smell.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan replied, a little crestfallen. “I saw what I expected to see, didn’t I?”

“As we often do,” Qui-Gon agreed, nuzzling his skin and occasionally giving it a lick.

“That’s what the notes were all about, then? A script?”

“Not a script, exactly. I was fairly certain of your routine. Think of it more as a treasure hunt.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “I’m that predictable, am I?”

“On some occasions. Not in the field, but here at home. Where you feel safe.”

“I do feel safe here, with you. What was it you said earlier? That I was what?”

“Easily led.”

“Worse than predictable,” Obi-Wan said sourly.

“Curiosity’s not a bad thing, _kosai_. And your nose for a trail can be very useful. You might be interested to know, also, that while you were off following this particular one—”

“A cold one to nowhere but a foul garbage bin, I might add,” he complained.

“—another knight and padawan team were helping round up your Hutt’s gang who were manufacturing death sticks on the other side of the city.”

It took Obi-Wan a moment, but when the pieces finally clicked together, he felt a bit chagrined. “So I was merely a distraction. I was fumbling around in one place while the real operation was going on elsewhere.”

“Providing a very good diversion, apparently.”

“Was I? Well, who knew? Even clowns have their uses, I suppose.”

Qui-Gon kissed the back of his neck and propped himself up on one arm running his other hand up and down Obi-Wan’s back. “I wouldn’t call you a clown. You did quite a creditable imitation of a porn star just now, however. There’s a talent I didn’t expect from you.”

“If you’ll turn that thing off, I’ll show you my other hidden talents, Master Jinn.”

“Nothing that involves garbage bins, I hope.”

“Oh no,” Obi-Wan purred, “nothing like that at all. I do a very good number in disrobing Jedi masters, however.”

“There’s a talent I wouldn’t see hidden. Give me a demonstration, would you?”

“With pleasure,” Obi-Wan replied. “I just happen to have a Jedi Master right here.”

* * *

Hours later, Jicky returned from her study session to find both masters ensconced on the sofa, looking far too innocent. Master Obi-Wan looked particularly guileless, which meant just exactly what Jicky had thought that afternoon. She grinned and turned to take off her boots, then stepped back, wrinkling her nose. Looking for the source of the faint yet foul odor, she reached under the weapons locker.

“Ew! Master!” she complained, holding up the stray disgusting sock that had escaped Obi-Wan’s earlier tidying up. “What’d you do? Go bin prospecting?”

She watched, mystified, as the two masters exchanged a look and broke up laughing.


End file.
